The Visitor
Back in the early 1990s, I was traveling back to the East Coast after living in Missoula, Montana for a while. As I headed through the rolling plains of eastern Montana in my truck, I enjoyed splendid views of pronghorn antelope and mule deer grazing in the fields. There were also prairie dogs and a wide variety of songbirds, hawks, and ground birds.
I travel using US routes and state highways, as opposed to interstates, when possible. It’s more scenic, it’s a two lane road instead of four so it’s easy to pull off to the side of the road, and passing through small towns gives a Rockwellian picture of Americana.
After traveling all day, I was in Wyoming on a very desolate highway. The only people I saw were the occasional rancher in a pickup truck. At dusk, I was in awe of the herds of pronghorn getting their last feeding before dark. The magnificant sunset cast purple hues and long shadows on the mountains to the west.
I was so overwhelmed by the mystical beauty of this area that I decided to just pull off the road to sleep under the stars. I found a rancher’s access road to a field, backed in off the highway, and sat watching the day’s last light.
The pronghorn were still grazing. They travel like a gazelle rather than a deer. They spring along, sort of a “boing, boing, boing” hop. It seems so effortless, yet each spring covers 15 or 20 feet.
At dark, I pulled out my sleeping bag and laid it beside my truck and climbed in. After a half hour or so watching the stars, I fell fast asleep.
I woke up at first light, opening my eyes but not moving. A feeling struck me, maybe you’ve had the same feeling before. Someone was watching me!
I laid still, not moving a muscle. Was some macho cowboy about to do me harm? Was it the highway patrol or some sheriff?
But then I swore I heard breathing. Heavy breathing. What the heck was it? Enough was enough. I quickly sat upright to face my intruder.
It was a pronghorn antelope sniffing at the foot of my sleeping bag. Our eyes locked, our faces just five feet apart. My sense of relief and admiration played second fiddle to the pronghorn’s reaction. He took off like a shot. Boing, boing, boing. Gracefully but with a sense of urgency he put a lot of distance between us.
His image stayed with me all day. It still does. I’ll always remember my close encounter with the ballerina of the high plains.
- Mountain Man